You have no obvious scars or wounds, though you vividly remember the pain of several hundred tiny punctures before you passed out, and apparently underwent some sort of surgical procedure. There is nothing wrong with you externally, but there is a sharp sensation every time you breathe inwards.

The red button appears to be analogous to the "call nurse" button in a legitimate medical facility. You probably don't want to call this nurse.

The sink seems to run either freezing cold water or scalding hot phlegm, naturally.

The picture you smashed has been replaced by "ART." There is nothing remarkable about the paper or the wall behind it.

The cabinets and drawers are stuffed mostly with small, irrelevant items. Erasers, buttons, some plastic army men, chewed pencils, candy wrappers...basically garbage.

The tools and gadgets on the wall are empty, plastic shells. Useless, though the "gameboy" - which seems to have been glued where a heart monitor is supposed to go - contains a plain, grey cartridge with "DOCTER MURIO" written on it in marker. It is also an empty shell.

All of the band-aids are used. Every single one appears to be blotched with dried blood and yellow smears of pus, carefully re-wrapped, and put back in the box. The tissues, likewise, are stiff to the touch.

The "sanitizer" on the wall smells like bile. It also moves a little.

Something inside the waste cabinet thumps every few moments, and seems to emit a dim glow. It shows no sign of being able to escape, whatever it is.